


The Cost of Magic

by 2babyturtles



Category: The Inheritance Cycle - Christopher Paolini
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canonical Character Death, Could Be Canon, Flashbacks, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hallucinations, Healing, Nightmares, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, Survivor Guilt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-18
Updated: 2018-03-18
Packaged: 2019-04-04 10:07:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14017911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2babyturtles/pseuds/2babyturtles
Summary: Galbatorix was defeated with one of the most incredible works of unspoken magic seen amongst any of the Riders. However, magic comes with a cost and to make the deranged king understand the weight of his actions, Eragon's magic also forced him to relive the terrors he'd seen. Now, feeling guilty for surviving a war he never thought he'd make it through and feeling locked in his own flashbacks, he must figure out what recovery will look like before leaving Alagaësia.





	The Cost of Magic

An arcing branch of a blossoming cherry tree filters the light that dances across the floor of the small room. Covering the open entrance with hundreds of tiny flowers, the pink tree is soft and hushed. Draping from the top of the archway are soft purple wisteria, drifting lazily on a wind that doesn’t quite reach indoors. Outside, beyond the entrance, sunlight is unhindered and birdsong indicates the joy of the creatures who get to bask in it. Eragon feels no joy.

“The cost of magic?” the elf woman sitting across from him repeats, drawing him from his reverie. Her raven hair is pulled back into a soft ponytail and Eragon wonders at the resemblance to Arya. His heart aches at the thought and he turns instead to her question.

“The cost of magic,” he responds, although he know she knows the answer. “Is as much as it would cost to accomplish the task through non-magical means.”

The woman’s hands are in her lap and she interlocks her fingers before readjusting her seat. It’s almost an impatient gesture, and not one Eragon finds particularly reassuring.

“So the cost of making Galbatorix understand what he’d done?” she presses. “What would that have required in terms of non-magical means?”

Eragon had known this question was coming and had been asking it himself since the former king had been destroyed. “Probably years. Testimony from those impacted by his deeds, reliving the horrors they’d all experienced. _We’ve_ all experienced. Some time spent in some sort of retreat or isolation to help him regrow himself.”

“Do you think it would’ve been possible?”

Blinking back hot tears as his heart beats harder, Eragon shakes his head.

* * *

 He hates the sound of his own name and it burns in his ears like hot iron when he leaves the small home, the woman having wished him a good day and said goodbye. She’d used his name. He wonders if she knows about the nightmares of people screaming it before they die in Urû’baen, flames and wreckage snuffing out the lives of so many warriors.

The sunshine feels mocking today, his skin desperately prickling for its warmth despite the cold sweat that doesn’t seem to leave him anymore. He picks his way down siple paths where simpl people live in simple homes, and is reminded again of how complex this world is. _The cost of magic,_ he repeats to himself. _A broken Rider._

It’s not a long walk to the home he shares with Saphira while he’s in Ellesméra and his thoughts are hardly good company along the way. Despite the celebrations of the elves, who are nearly as grateful for Galbatorix’s fall as are the other races of Alagaësia, there is a heavy grief here, too. Islanzadí is dead, Oromis is dead, Glaedr is dead.

Eragon keeps his mind carefully away from the Eldunarí when he thinks this last part, although he’s sure they can sense it anyway. He avoids eye contact with passing elves just as strongly as he avoids any other contact with the Eldunarí and the effect is isolating.

 _Little One,_ Saphira hums, barely above a whisper as he approaches their shared home.

Eragon doesn’t respond. He hates himself for being so angry and sad when he’s survived a war with a dragon by his side. His own personal losses seem so minor in comparison to the losses of so many others. He steps through the door on the first floor of their home and hesitates, eyes tracing the stairs.

Saphira is upstairs, resting in the hollow carved out where it’s easiest for her to fly in from the top. His body craves the warmth and safety she provides but he can’t help wondering if he deserves it. His stomach seems to claw at his throat and he blinks tears away again as he turns instead to a low wooden bench and takes a seat.

 _Little One,_ Saphira repeats. There’s sadness in her tone and Eragon’s guilt multiplies.

 _This is my fault,_ he replies. _Why did I survive this?_ Flashbacks of the urgal attack in Tronjheim blister his mind and he recoils further into himself, asking the question again. _Why did I survive any of this?_

Despite her own grief, Saphira tries to soothe her Rider. She offers images of the destruction wrought by the corrupt king in an attempt to help Eragon see what he saved Alagaësia from. He might’ve been open to it if those same memories didn’t haunt him so much. He remembers fueling every one of those images into his desperation as he forced Galbatorix to understand. Just to understand. The result is a hard scar where his heart used to be.

He closes his eyes, desperately wishing he could shake out the feeling in his limbs. Not prone to violence, he’s unfamiliar with the desire to punch something unnecessarily. But there’s a rushing feeling in his arms and a devastating heat in his stomach. For a moment, he wonders if this is what a cloud feels like just before it unleashes lightning on the ground below. He almost laughs at the idea.

Saphira hums again, enjoying the idea that Eragon might breathe fire, too, and for a moment, things seem a little better. There’s a soft knock outside, interrupting their thoughts. It takes longer than Eragon thinks it should to recognize the sound for what it is and turn to address it. He’s been so sluggish recently and that scares him as much as anything.

A flashback of his more human self, running from the urgals after finding a murdered pile of humans and a speared baby comes to mind and he cringes at the thought. Slow means dead and slowing down means dying. His eyes eventually manage to find the face of his visitor and he pushes himself to his feet, ignoring the massive effort it seems to require.

“Islanzadí,” he whispers, acknowledging the queen. Blagden is nowhere to be seen and Eragon’s stomach roils as he wonders at the bird’s fate. “Atra esterní ono thelduin,” he offers, twisting his hand over his chest and bowing.

“Mor'ranr lífa unin hjarta onr.” The queen’s voice is the same surreal force as he remembers and Eragon shudders.

“Un du evarínya ono varda,“ he finishes. “What are you doing here?”

Islanzadí smiles sadly and her dark eyes seem to sink further into her head. In fact, as Eragon watches, it seems that all of Islanzadí’s features sink into her face and her skin seems to fade, as if it’s burned. “Eragon, Son of None,” she responds bitterly, her voice echoing somehow. “I am not here at all.”

An eruption throws the queen towards Eragon but he can’t do anything to catch her when the walls and ceiling of the tree-sung home also collapse. Unaffected by the flames that lick at the scene, Brom takes several steps over the rubble to crouch over Eragon and the queen.

“Son of None,” he repeats through gritted teeth.

* * *

 

Eragon awakens with a start and realizes that he’s yelling. Saphira’s massive head is looming nearby, a growl hovering at her lips. She’s managed to fly down to the first floor and shove her head through the door. Tears burn Eragon’s face and he gasps past the sobs that shake his chest.

 _Little One,_ Saphira coos, instantly relaxing when she realizes that he must’ve fallen asleep on the bench.

 _I don’t know how to go on,_ Eragon wails, stepping over the bench and collapsing to his knees beside Saphira. _I wasn’t supposed to go on._ Saphira is quiet as Eragon mourns and wonders at a life he didn’t expect to have. _I thought I’d die._

Eragon explains his nightmares and after what seems like a long time, Glaedr’s rumbling voice breaks into the moment. _There is no weight so great to bare as guilt, but let it not stop your movement forward._

Somehow, the words seem to shatter something inside Eragon. Rage, fierce and hot, burns at his chest and Saphira snarls, surprised by the force of it. _Do you think I’m not trying?_ Eragon demands, jumping to his feet and whirling around to look at the spot where the Eldunarí are hovering behind him. His nostrils flare and his breath comes in ragged huffs.

As quickly as it comes, his rage dies out and he collapses again. Glaedr retreats, not quite understanding what is wrong with this Rider but understanding that something is wrong. His sympathy feels toxic to Eragon, who just wants things to be normal again.

Tipping her head at him, Saphira hesitates a moment before reaching out and grabbing the back of Eragon’s jerkin as carefully as she can with her teeth. Eragon doesn’t respond, too surprised to find himself being pulled out of the building by his dragon. He watches with wide eyes as the ground swings below and Saphira takes the short jump to the second floor of the building.

She deposits him into the hollow she uses as a bed and curls up beside him, stretching one blue wing out over him. Rolling onto his back, Eragon reaches out and runs his fingers across the expanse of sky-colored flesh above him. Taking a deep breath, he closes his eyes.

 _We’re going to get you help,_ Saphira decides sharply. _But first, we’re going to get you sleep._ She hums softly and allows the rumbles of flames in her chest to warm the Rider, whose limbs are cold with shock and grief. He might respond but is soundly asleep before he can form a words and leaves her with only his gratitude as he drifts away. She waits for him to be firmly lodged in the state of sleep that is his reality now as an elf-like creature before contacting Glaedr again for advice.


End file.
